My Profile
Diary Rings

Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
A Gift from Hil - 2014-12-28
There was A LOT of turkey. - 2014-12-04
Can we just jump to January please? - 2014-11-14
A (don't kick the) Bucket List - 2014-10-28

Join my Notify List and get email when I update my site:
Powered by

1:15 p.m. - 2012-04-26
Imaginary Bites

Brutal. The last 30 hours or so have been brutal. No catastrophic bad things. Just a seemingly endless series of hitches, glitches, flubs, toe stubs, miscues, missteps, flops, drops, blops, failure, and fuckery.

(When in doubt channel Hedley Lamarr. Or Tupac. Riff, rap, or rant, you decide.)

Yesterday did slightly redeem itself when the pork roast dinner came out okay and the only goofs were a scorched index finger and Wolf knocking over the freshly filled salt cup. It's actually an egg cup, a cute one with the wee spoon inside the lid, but since I don't eat soft-boiled eggs and do use kosher salt at the table the egg cup became the salt cup and the spilled contents are still in a heap on the dining room table because no one took the tablecloth outside and shook it last night.

The day further redeemed itself with some spur of the moment happy pants action with my honey after the kid went to sleep. Wednesday night nakey-time, always a good thing.

But things swung back into the horrible and stayed there once I tried to sleep. A rough, rough night. Worst one in a long while. (Pardon me for a moment while I have yet another argument with the Grammar Check. No matter how many times I tell it that fragment sentences are a way of life with me the program refuses to believe this.)

So last night along with hideous night sweats and a record setting FOUR trips to the bathroom, this morning after Mick got out of bed I got sucked back down into an awful, awful, awful nightmare. Recounting bad dreams is among the most boring of blog fodder but this one really shook me up and I'm having trouble making it go away, so please bear with me. Maybe if I barf it up in print it'll dispel the damn thing and I can be wholly here again.

In the dream I was living at the old house. There was a lot of confusing shit with the ex-SIL and her husband and some woman who was supposed to be the ex's grandmother being there and they were furious with me over my lousy hostessing. I don't know, badly timed meals? Not getting them where they wanted to go in the city? Not scoring them good seats to 'Phantom'? Whatever it was they wanted I wasn't giving it to them correctly and there was a lot of sneering and insults and exasperated eye rolling. Please understand this was how I'd always felt around them in real life anyway, LA the Failure, and being found wanting yet again was wicking me out. A panicky self-disapproval I never thought I'd have to feel ever again once I'd gotten rid of the ex. Anyway, after a lot of ugliness from the ex in-laws I retreated to my room. Not the actual room I had at the old house, this one was some new room which doesn't exist here in this reality but was my room in the dream. This is where it got really scary. The room tried to kill me. The menace of this room was palpable. The walls were a diseased yellow and patchy with mildew blooms. The bed- a blood stained mattress that made insectile buzzing noises and I just knew it was filled with rats- I had to get into this awful bed. It was the only way to get away from the demanding angry ex-relatives. I didn't want to, I wanted to run away, but in the odd compulsions of the dream world I got in. And that's when the room gathered up all its evil and tried to kill me. A thing, a body of some sort laid down on top of me and held me prone while it smothered/drown me. The worst thing? I could feel it with this body. My actual real-life body was choking under a horrible weight. I couldn't push it off me. I couldn't wake up. I couldn't do anything to save myself. My chest was crushed under that evil pressure and I couldn't breathe. Dreaming mind, waking mind, they were both caught up in this horror and my body was responding as if it were really happening. I could feel it. The throb of my squeezed out lungs. The stench of this malevolent presence. The sheer terror of being killed by something I couldn't see. A thing that had weight and murderous intent. It was winning. I was going to die. With one last effort I pushed my way out into waking up. Didn't help much. Gasping for air, slimy with fear sweat, in that dark tomb of a room (light-blocking curtains, why had I ever thought they were a good idea?) I tried to rejoin this reality and could NOT do it. I shook and gagged and my heart was pounding so hard and so fast I felt like I might die anyway.

And that's what I woke up to this morning. The normalcy of coming out of my bedroom and greeting the dog and making coffee and turning on my machine and going pee and brushing my teeth, taking my meds, none of it helped a damn bit.

The day outside is a grey clouded over No Time day. The neighborhood noise of yard work and trains and passing cars is entirely absent. I did get to speak to Mick eventually and his voice helped a little to anchor me back into the now- this real place of the Hobbit House and my office and the trees outside the windows and Mary of the Eyebrows on my altar, but I am still very shaken.

Those of you who just have dreams and can always distinguish between the realities of the waking and sleeping lives, man, I envy you and completely understand your scorn. "What the hell? Is this chick even nuttier and more pathetic than I thought? Sheesh." But those who also share a nightworld that is real as real can be no matter how outré it seems in the daytime where there's reason and infomercials and Hamburger Helper, can you blame me for being frightened still? For feeling like the skin of this world, this real place, is mighty thin sometimes?

A talk therapist would encourage me to suss out the underlying issues and discuss my fear of inadequacy, especially if she was a Freudian. A guru would say I needed to retreat back inside myself and meditate on what my soul was trying to tell me. A Marine drill sergeant would scream profanities and order me to drop and give him twenty. Cher would tell me to, "Snap out of it!" and smack my face. However I'm me. A chick who's blogged for over a decade and my go-to place is here. Good times. Bad times. Weirdness. A snoring excess of ordinary nitty-natty.

I had a lousy frustrating day yesterday and a very bad night. It's gloomy, way too quiet out there and I am still a little freaked out.

Send a kind thought, tell a joke, assure me it'll be okay? Thanks, ~LA

13 Wanna talk about it!

previous // next